


put away your doubts and fears

by spiekiel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Crime, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, bed sharing, campus security guard Derek, computer whiz stiles, derek kicks ass, this turned out pretty darn dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiekiel/pseuds/spiekiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can see it in the kid's eyes in the split second before he turns and bolts, and he sighs, because it is such a goddamn hassle to chase down these idiots, sometimes.</p><p>{Derek thinks Stiles is still awake, if just barely, so he gives up his last hope of not getting involved, and whispers, "There's always a way out."}</p>
            </blockquote>





	put away your doubts and fears

Derek usually has Friday night off, and Erica didn't really give him any pointers before tearing out of their house with Boyd in tow to look at reception venues, so he hits the streets expecting the usual breed of stupid college kids, just in higher volume, but _this_ is fucking unbelievable - 

 

Most of the kids at Derek's college don't really have much in the way of street smarts, but they've usually seen enough movies that when they head out on criminal business, as arrogant geniuses have an annoying habit of doing, they have the sense to wear a dark hoodie, not something bright red with _MIT_ emblazoned across the back.

 

He's already been by two frat houses on noise complaints, there's a headache festering in the back of his skull, and there's a large part of him that wants to just turn around and walk back the way he came, let this kid keep on his way to wherever he's going, looking over his shoulder every few steps like it's not already written in the hunch of his shoulders, the crook of his neck under his hood that he's up to no good.

 

The kid sees him coming towards him from the corner, and freezes almost comically, his eyes flickering to Derek's uniform, the taser on his belt, the _campus security_ cap on his head.His footsteps falter, he casts a quick look back the way he came, and there's a split second where Derek starts to say, "Hey, you - "

 

He can see it in the kid's eyes in the heartbeat before he turns and bolts, and he sighs, because it is _such_ a fucking hassle to chase down these idiots, sometimes.

 

It takes all of a block for Derek to have the kid pressed up against the brick wall of the Deaton Biology Center, arm twisted behind his back, Derek's full weight pressed up against him.Once the kid stops struggling, he spins him around to face him, keeping a forearm pressed across his chest, and - 

 

The kid's hood falls away, and his eyes are shining wetly in the orange streetlight, his bottom lip fat and split, still bleeding, a bruise forming on his chin.He looks - _scared_ , like a cornered animal, and Derek has the sudden instinct to back off, hands up, and give him some space to calm down in.  

 

"Okay," the kid swallows, and Derek does _not_ watch the bob of his throat, doesn't lose a second in the heave of the kid's skinny chest against his arm, "I'm gonna be straight with you, right now.There _is_ a gun in my pocket."

 

Derek growls a little while he's digging the gun out of the kid's hoodie.It's a .22, not the showy kind that most of the wannabe mobsters around this area run around with, which either means that this kid couldn't get access to a tommy gun, or that he's smart enough to know the difference between impressiveness and actual functionality.He shoves it into his belt, grabs a ziptie, and spins the kid to tie his hands behind his back.

 

He pats down the kid's fitted jeans and doesn't find anything more than a wallet with an ID declaring an unpronounceable name."What's your name?"

 

The kid looks at the ID in Derek's hand and winces, in sympathy or embarassment Derek isn't sure."Stiles," he says."People mostly call me Stiles, well - apart from my grandmother, but she's a born Pole, so - "

 

"Full name?" he can see the last name, but he has to make sure the kid isn't going to lie to him, especially with a concealed weapon already under his belt.

 

"Stiles Stilinski," the kid says."I have a permit for that gun, by the way."

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him, and sits him down hard on the curb, standing over him."You have a concealed carry permit?" he asks incredulously.Stiles nods."Are you even eighteen?"

 

"You have my ID in your hand," Stiles says, "I'm nineteen, thank you very much."

 

Derek leafs through the other cards in the wallet, but there's only the one card, plus a school ID, not the usual array of fakes that college kids around here carry."Why'd you run, Stiles?"

 

"Am I under arrest? You should probably read me my rights - "

 

Derek glares at him hard enough that he shuts up."You're not under arrest.I'm campus security, I can only put you in holding, which I still might do.So, why did you run?"

 

Stiles clamps up on his bloody lip and says, "I think I'm gonna excercise my right to remain silent, now."His face is suddenly all hard lines, and it shouldn't be like that - no kid still in school, still under twenty-one, still with their whole life out in front of them should look like they're out of options, done, put on the last-ditch defensive.

 

Derek sighs, and crouches down in front of Stiles, slumped on the edge of the curb with a hard expression, hoodie hanging off one shoulder to show a graphic tee, and with his buzzed head and the tips of his ears glowing bright red, he must be cold.It's March, already starting to get warm out during the day, but it's not day - it's approaching two a.m, and there are tiny tremors running visibly through Stiles' body.  

 

"Stiles," Derek says, in his _trust me, I'm a law enforcement professional_ voice, "if you don't tell me what you're into, I can't help you."And he has a feeling that he's into something, by the trapped look and the protective posture - everything about Stiles screams that he's running from something.

 

Stiles' mouth remains resoultely closed, pale skin flushed at the fringes with rosy cold."Okay," Derek says."Who beat you up, then?"

 

Stiles looks up at him, quickly, then back down at the pavement."I've had worse," he says.Derek's gaze keeps up, the kind of stare that the right to remain silent often collapses under.Stiles takes a deep breath, pulls his head to the side like he's trying to keep himself from talking."Couple of drunken disorderlies down at McAlister's."

 

"McAlister's?" Derek says."You been drinking?"

 

"Seriously?" Stiles asks."Are you going to breathalize me, really? How dumb do you think that I am, walk into a mob bar with a gun and get smashed - only if I had a death wish - " he cuts off, and it's obvious that he's said more than he wanted to, but too late - 

 

Not that many people outside law enforcement know that McAlister's on second street is a mob hangout.Mostly just the people that go to the bookie in the back booth there, and the people involved with the family, and, well - Derek heard last week that the bookie had his brains blown out in Philly.

 

Derek hauls Stiles to his feet, the kid falling against him briefly before regaining himself, and Derek - Derek doesn't hold him any closer than necessary, honest.If he does, it's because Stiles is shaking, like he's either going to collapse or start running, which in both cases, closer is better.  

 

He breathes the crisp night air in through his nostrils, trying to cleanse that headache pounding at his skull."What residence hall do you live in?"

 

"Dude, you have my student ID - "

 

"I _will_ put you in holding if you're uncooperative," Derek rumbles.

 

Stiles looks only slightly surrendered."If you wanted to book me, you would've called for back up by now," he says, instead of just answering the fucking question."I was armed, I evaded apprehension, I've got face bruises, but if you bring me in to holding you have to fill out paperwork, and I figure, Friday night, you've got somewhere you want to be, girlfriend, maybe kids, a dog, who knows, late night soaps, maybe that's your thing - "

 

Derek shakes him by the arm, a little rougher than is necessary to just shut him up."I'm either escorting you home, or to the police station, where _they_ will do the paperwork for me.Now, which residence hall?"

 

&

 

Stiles' roommate is out when they get back, and Derek feels bad leaving him there alone, bleeding, so he followshim into the kitchen.It's a suite-style dorm, not the kind that any nineteen-year-old student should be able to wrangle their way into, even at MIT, which tells Derek that Stiles is either loaded or good at networking mob-style.

 

Stiles opens the freezer with his foot, looks at Derek, looks at a bag of frozen peas, looks at his hands zip-tied behind his back, and makes a pleading face.Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn't make a move to undo the zipties."You have a safe for this gun?" he asks.  

 

Another pointed look at the peas, and Stiles says slowly, "No."

 

"Well, then I have to keep it."Derek grabs the peas himself and holds them against Stiles' chin, until Stiles twists spastically and in the same movement kicks the freezer closed and holds the peas between his shoulder and his jaw."You know I'm going to have to check up on that permit, too."

 

Stiles nods sideways around the bag of peas."You might want to copy down my full name, then, because there's no way you're going to remember it.Permit's for California, but it's good in Massachusetts, I checked."

 

"Could be a week or so until I get the report back."Derek pulls a notepad off of his belt and writes down Stiles' unpronounceable first name, sitting back against the edge of the kitchen table."Once that happens, you'll get a call from campus security, come down to the office and sign for it."

 

"Sure, fine," Stiles says."Thanks for not booking me, by the way, officer..."

 

"Derek Hale.Not an officer."Derek sniffs and looks down at the floor - hardwood, which Derek is pretty sure isn't standard issue in most college dorm rooms.It's like the Ritz of dorm rooms, honestly, what the fuck is this kid into, maybe Derek should have booked him after all.Stiles' sneakers shuffle on the floor in front of him, and he twists funny to try and get the leverage to keep the peas up, the heels of his bound hands slipping on the edge of the kitchen counter.

 

"If you could undo the ziptie, though, that would be awesome - " 

 

"Stiles," Derek says evenly, "why did you try to run?"

 

For a split second Derek thinks Stiles might tell him the truth, because the hard look behind his eyes softens up just slightly, and - his eyes are a warm brown color, with flecks of gold, wide and expressive and _tired_.But he says, "I told you, I got tossed around by some of the patrons down at McAlister's, thought maybe you were after me for the fight."

 

This isn't Derek's first day on the job, so he knows that _that's_ a bold-faced lie."Okay, so what's the gun for?"

 

"Protection," Stiles says."I was raised by a cop, my self-defense awareness levels are very high, so - "

 

"So, you're smart enough to know that running from law enforcement for a fight you didn't start is dumb and pointless," Derek interrupts.  

 

Stiles smiles, laughs just slightly even though nothing's really funny, the peas slipping a few inches under his chin."You know what kind of place McAlister's is," he says."It would be my word against a bunch of mobsters who _swore_ up and down I threw the first punch.Besides, none of you cops are very discriminate in the arrests at that bar.Round 'em all up and throw 'em in the paddy wagon, let the judge sort them out."

 

Derek taps the brim of his cap."Not a cop."  

 

"Right," Stiles grins."Rent-a-cop."

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him and doesn't bother to dignify that with a response."I'm keeping the gun," he says instead, clipping the notepad back onto his belt and dropping Stiles' wallet onto the table."If the permit doesn't check out, expect the cops."  

 

"I would expect nothing less," Stiles says.In the fluorescent overhead lighting, the bruise festering on his lower lip looks ten times worse, and Derek has half a mind to call the paddy wagon down to McAlister's."The ziptie, though - "

 

Derek pulls his pocket knife out and steps across the small kitchen, disengaging Stiles' hands from the countertop to cut the ziptie.Stiles streches his fingers, forgetting for a second to hold the peas with his shoulder, and they fall - but Derek catches them, starts to raise them to Stiles' battered face, but Stiles grabs them from him before his fingers can brush skin, which - is for the best.

 

&

 

"Why is the entirety of campus security built like Greek gods?" Stiles says from the front desk."I saw the blond girl walking out, honestly, what do they put in the water here?"

 

Derek slams the filing cabinet drawer closed and glares at him over the Mac desktop on the desk."Your permit check hasn't come back yet," he says."Few more days, probably."

 

Stiles' default grin falters for just a second, so that Derek barely sees it, but in that moment he looks scared again, like a kid out of options."You guys seriously don't have any sort of online database for this sort of thing?"

 

"Only if you want me to call the cops in on this," Derek says, "and then there'd be more paperwork for everyone, and more scrutiny on you.And you seem like a good kid, so I'd prefer not to do that."

 

Stiles is fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie, the same red one from before, his hands resting on the desktop."Thing is, I really need that gun back.Like, today."

 

Derek had been about to close the place up for the night, go home - he's in his civvies, a dark grey shirt and jeans, hat gone, his leather jacket hung over the back of the desk chair.He looks at Stiles for a long moment, his still-healing split lip and his thin shoulders, and the last thing he wants to do is leave him defenseless, especially if he's into the kind of shit Derek thinks he is, but he doesn't know what else he can do.  

 

"Are you in trouble?" his voice is low in the empty lobby of the campus security office.

 

Stiles bounces up and down a few times onto the balls of his feet, not looking at him, then stills."I don't know," he says, honestly."I don't really want to wait around with my back unguarded to find out, though."

 

Derek takes a deep, cleansing breath.He tries to look anywhere but Stiles' face - at the dark street outside the glass doors, at the discolored white linoleum, at the stack of official warnings he still has to mail to one of the campus fraternities.But he can still feel Stiles' eyes on him, and if he does nothing, he'll find himself pretty soon grinding his teeth and unlocking the gun safe around the back of the office.

 

"I live with a bunch of other security guards," he says, finally."We can watch your back for the night, and maybe the permit check will be finished in the morning."

 

A smile splits across Stiles' face, and it's like the sun coming out from behind black stormclouds, but Derek says, "But - " and it falls away just as quickly as it came."But you've got to tell me what's going on."

 

Stiles presses his mouth into a thin line, and bounces a few times again, like he does that every time he's deliberating something, which - maybe he does, Derek knows practically nothing about this kid.He wants to know more, though, and that just figures, doesn't it - that the first time in as long as he can remember, he wants to really get to know someone, and he has to go pick a juvenile delinquent - granted, a juvenile delinquent with a brain like a whip and eyes that could melt Pluto, move a mountain, probably, or build a city, but still.  

 

"Okay," Stiles says."But no cops."

 

Derek is pretty sure this is that one step he can never go back from, but he says, "Fine."

 

It sure as hell seems like the weather's moving backwards, instead of forwards into spring - there are soft flurries falling lightly from the night sky as Derek stops to lock the door and then sets out, leading the way back to his townhouse, just a few blocks from campus.Stiles follows closely behind him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatshirt, hood up, and even the way he walks has too much energy, almost like he's full of electricity and bursting at the seams, the edges where he's not quite stitched up right.

 

"So," Derek says, when they hit the first street corner, "talk."  

 

Stiles' steps falter, and Derek thinks he could be bugging out, but then he redoubles and catches him two steps back up."My - ah," he starts, which is just a wealth of information."My dad's a cop in LA.Works organized crime.You wouldn't think it, but there's a pretty big Irish contingent out on the west coast.My dad got too close to one of their operations, my freshman year at Caltech."

 

He breathes out a long stream of frozen air, frost clouding around his mouth.His eyes are straight ahead, resigned to the path ahead, Derek thinks."They us him in their crosshairs, but when they found out I was a computer whiz they figured I would be more valuable inside the operation than I would be dead.They shipped me out here, and now, either I run their books - for the whole nationwide operation - or my dad dies."

 

Derek doesn't say anything for a long minute.They pass through another deserted intersection in silence, the traffic light changing, casting Stiles in a harsh red light, even though there are no cars to direct.

 

They're about a block from Derek's house when he finally says, "What really happened Friday night?"

 

Stiles hunches deeper into his hoodie, if that's even possible.Derek wants to grab him and draw him in, slip his hands inside the hood to cup the Stiles' face, lean in - 

 

"A friend of mine, Isaac," Stiles says, "he's a senior in high school, his dad's a low-level in the family, but even so, they've got hooks in Isaac pretty deep.He - his dad hits him.He wants out, of the whole thing.I set him up with a bus ticket to Beacon Hills University, little rural college in California.He's going to stay with my buddy Scott and his girlfriend."  

 

Stiles stops under a streetlight, scuffing his sneakers over the sidewalk, and Derek stops next to him."His dad found out on Friday, figured I did it, of course.I only got out of there because some of the guys thought it would be a good idea to protect the boss' pet bookie."

 

"That's - " Derek says, and stops.It's a lot of things - heavy, too much for a nineteen year old to have hanging over his head, an eerie reminder of Derek's own childhood as a member of the Hale family, New York mafia royalty, untouchable until they weren't."Not what I was expecting."

 

"Right," Stiles snorts."You thought I was just another one of those idiots thinking the best way to make it large was to outsmart the man."He squints up at the streetlight."I've got to stay three steps ahead of a lot of people, one of them being the man, true, but."He shrugs.

 

Derek casts a look down the street - he can see the townhouse from here, where there's a heater and a warm shower that he hasn't had in forty-eight hours and probably some sort of dinner, leftovers if Erica is cooking, which she said she would."Almost home," he says.

 

The townhouse used to be his uncle Peter's, bought by Derek fresh out of his sophomore year of college even though he couldn't afford it, had to get two of his friends to pitch in on money.Erica and Boyd take up most of the second floor, already, with his room in what used to be an office downstairs, and with the wedding coming up, he doesn't expect it to be long before they edge him out completely.

 

It's a brick facade, cozy if a little cramped on the interior, not too cluttered because none of them are particularly into material possessions.The whole house smells like spaghetti the second Derek opens the door, which means that Boyd stopped off at the Italian place on Grove after his shift at that pharmaceutical firm downtown, instead of letting his fiancée anywhere near the stove.

 

Stiles stops inside the door and breathes in deeply."Marcello's on Grove," he says, spot-on."I've been banned from that place for _months_ , since the Italian mob moved in.I hope there's enough for an extra person."

 

Derek's heart works fast, so he's at that point already where he'd probably give Stiles his portion, if he asked for it.He's saved from the mistake of offering it up by Erica yelling from the kitchen, "Derek, Boyd got enough lasagna for the next few nights, but it will all be gone if you don't get your _ass_ in here!"

 

Stiles laughs, and he's close enough to Derek in the entryway that he feels it as a warm exhalation of air on his neck."Sounds like there's plenty."

 

Derek turns and leads the way down the hall towards the warm light coming from the kitchen.It's really only half a kitchen, half a living room, half the chairs at the table are armchairs instead of wooden ones.The arrangement leaves a little less space to manoeuver in front of the stove, and the whole table has to be moved to get at the oven, but it's comfortable for the most part.  

 

Erica and Boyd are already sat at the table, sharing one of the armchairs even though there are three other spots open, Erica practically sitting in Boyd's lap.There's a full spread of oven-fired lasagna covering the table, along with an array of fountain drinks and beer bottles, a few of which have already been emptied.

 

Boyd looks up from behind Erica when Derek leads Stiles through the doorway.It's the first time, Derek thinks, that Stiles looks timid.He's shied away before, but - Derek thinks, he probably isn't used to accepting handouts.  

 

Like she can feel that Boyd's attention has been redirected from dinner, Erica looks up.She pulls a face."Goddamn, Der," she says, "I thought you were done bringing home strays."

 

&

 

Apart from that, Derek thinks, it goes pretty well.Or, as well as can be expected, with Erica and a juvenile delinquent in the same kitchen.They get by on minimum facts, and that's probably what saves the entire endeavor.

 

He sets Stiles up on the couch, where Derek's room is still between Stiles and the door, with two pillows and a flannel blanket that he has to take from the foot of his own bed, because they don't really have any extras.Boyd's Netflix account, which pretty much reflects upon all three of them at this point, gets pulled up on the television, and when Derek walks past for the last time before headed to bed - eleven o'clock at night because dinner took two hours - 

 

Stiles is sitting on the couch, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear, facing away from Derek and lit around the edges by the TV screen.Something ridiculous with ninjas playing soccer is on, but it's turned way down, quiet enough that Stiles' low voice is audible even with the background noise.  

 

"...no, 'm fine," he's saying, shaking his head unconsciously even though whoever's on the other end of the line can't see him."...staying at a friend's, I'll be home in time to make you waffles in the morning."He pauses, listening, and Derek almost moves away into the bathroom, but he doesn't go quick enough not to hear the sign-off, "Yeah, yeah.Goodnight, Lydia."

 

Derek lingers outside the bathroom as Stiles hangs up the phone, turns off the television and flops down on the couch, the room plunged into darkness, and that makes sense, doesn't it, that Stiles should stay out here while Derek goes to his own empty bed, because the best ones are always taken.

 

When he slides into bed his sheets are cold, there's an unregistered revolver in the drawer in the bedside table.The map of the city he has taped to the ceiling to look over when he can't sleep turns into warzones in his mind, territories and boundary lines, no-man's land and neutral ground.He can't sleep, and he's twelve again, listening to a poker game downstairs, his mom and his uncle and an African arms dealer - 

 

He must fall asleep at some point, because he wakes up with a shock to the sound of a hoarse yell.  

 

The ability to roll out of bed in a split second is programmed into Derek's brain, and he's not really awake until he's in the doorway with the revolver out.His eyes flick towards the front door, still closed, and he clears the hallway to the living room before moving quickly through the dark house to the couch.

 

Stiles is sitting bolt upright on the couch, one leg hanging over the side like he was about to start running.Derek can hear him breathing heavy over the sound of the heater running, his face flushed in the moonlight coming in through the window at the front of the house.His gaze is unfocused, and Derek lowers the gun slowly as he realizes that he's still seeing whatever was in his nightmare, whatever has him looking like he's been clubbed in the face, had the air crushed out of his lungs.

 

Derek sticks the gun in the back of his sleep pants, safety back on, and doesn't move for the space of a stuttered heartbeat.Then he walks around the couch and pauses in front of the window, right in Stiles' eyeline.The kid's eyes snap up to Derek's face, and even in the darkness he can see that they're smudged red.

 

"Derek?" he says, his voice thin.  

 

He's known Derek for barely a week, spent a grand total of less than eight hours with him, but he still sways into his space when Derek kneels on the floor in front of him.Derek catches him against his shoulder, his hand going automatically to the back of his neck, and feels Stiles breathe out, shaky, against him.

 

"Talk about it?" Derek murmurs.

 

Stiles shakes his head, his nose rubbing at Derek's tee shirt.  

 

Derek soothes his thumb over the soft patch of skin behind Stiles' ear, and closes his eyes against the thought that he should take Stiles back to bed, curl up around his back and ease him back to sleep, their legs tangled with the sheets until moonlight fades into sun."Netflix?" he asks instead.

 

Stiles laughs lightly."Sure."It might be all in Derek's head, but he's pretty sure Stiles presses his face harder into Derek's neck for a moment before sitting back, dragging a hand across his eyes, and settling back into the couch.

 

Derek starts out sitting on the floor, the rest of that ninja soccer movie flashing bright colors across the room, but Stiles mutters, "Don't be stupid, it's your couch," and manhandles Derek up onto the rumpled blanket next to him.There's a few feet of space between them, but by the time the movie ends and Stiles puts on old episodes of _30 Rock,_ it's down to an inch, and then finally, when the sun's starting to come up outside - 

 

He thinks Stiles is still awake, if just barely, so he gives up his last hope of not getting involved, emotionally, and whispers, "There's always a way out."

 

Derek falls asleep with his face in the back cushion next to Stiles' head, turned on his side, one of his legs thrown over one of Stiles', his scruff scratching Stiles' jaw, and Erica is going to give him hell in the morning.

 

&

 

It's the next day, afternoon classes still in session, the campus the least active it ever is inside of a regular school day, the sun pleasantly warming, when Derek's radio buzzes, and Erica's voice comes through, "Hey everyone, got a blue light ping from the emergency phone down by McAlister's."

 

Derek's heart skips into his throat.He presses down the talk button on his radio, and says, "I'm four blocks away, I'll handle it."

 

He takes off at a jog, his plain black dress shoes slapping on the sidewalk.There isn't really anyone in his way, but he does blow across an intersection that he probably shouldn't, doesn't even see the Prius that almost runs him over, because that's got to be Stiles, doesn't it, the idiot who would press a blue light button instead of call the police, who was still dozing lazily on Derek's couch when he left for work this morning, tee shirt hiked up around his midsection, and - 

 

And it's a Prius.Derek could take a hit from a Prius, and still not tarnish MIT's campus security 2-minute blue light response record.  

 

He rounds the corner to the block that McAlister's bar is on.The blue light is across the street and a few buildings down, but he can see it well from here, and - it's the same red sweatshirt that the whole university wears, but Derek can tell, already, that the slumped form sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the blue light stand, one arm curled up around the side of his head, fingers shaking like leaves in the wind where they're cupped around his ear - that's Stiles.

 

He looks, this time, before he crosses the street, then takes it in long bounds, almost tripping over the curb to skid to a halt with his hand braced on the blue light stand.Stiles flinches as Derek drops into a crouch in front of him.

 

Stiles coughs, and says, "Told you I needed that gun back."

 

There's blood leaking out form between his fingers, one of his eyes is smashed into a nasty bruise that carries over onto his cheek and his forehead, swollen shut already.Derek can hardly see what's bleeding, but his ear is all cut up, so's the side of his head, the corner of his jaw, what looks like glass cuts, that hopefully no longer have glass in them.

 

Derek pulls his radio off his belt and is about to phone in for an ambulance, but Stiles knocks his free hand weakly into Derek's, and says, "No hospital."

 

"Don't be fucking stupid, Stiles - "

 

"They'd investigate.Looks like abuse.No cops, no hospital."Stiles looks up at him with his good eye, and if Derek were ever a mountain, he hasn't been since he met Stiles, so he's moved, easily.  

 

He presses the talk button on his radio, and says, "I've got it covered, Erica.Just a kid needs a ride to the airport, doesn't want to pay for a cab."

 

Erica comes back, "Fucking kids," and signs off.

 

Derek gets an arm under Stiles' and helps him stagger to his feet, taking the brunt of his weight across his shoulders.They start walking, and he can feel warm blood oozing from where Stiles is trying in vain to keep pressure on a head wound that's larger than his fingers can spread, seeping through his uniform to his skin.

 

He's of half a mind to tear out his taser and march into McAlister's to give those fucking bastards what's coming to them, head held high, _I'm the last goddamn Hale, fucking fight me like a man_ , pound into them until they stop moving, because Stiles is almost limp, bleeding from the head, and if there's one thing his mother taught him well it was to make sure your enemy stays down - 

 

"Derek," Stiles is saying, not for the first time."I appreciate the sentiment, but you can't take the ten guys the boss has got in there.Also, you're basically a cop, I think you'd have to try and arrest them first, which - no witnesses, no evidence, they're clean, I should know, I do their books - "

 

"What the hell did you do to piss them off?" Derek interrupts, because what he knows is this: get the facts, identify the guilty party, protect the innocents."Was it the same guys?"

 

Stiles takes a block to reply, stumbling along on his blood spattered sneakers."Boss wants to get his finger in the human trafficking pie," he mumbles, quiet enough that Derek barely hears it."Wanted me to help him work it all out."A drop of blood snakes its way out from between his fingers and across his still-yellowed chin."I told him no fucking way."

 

Derek's arm tightens around Stiles' midsection, and Stiles isn't looking at him, but he can't look away."We got to arguing pretty bad," Stiles says, and that's the kind of kid that he has, here - a kid who'll argue with a mob boss and live to tell the tale, go back swinging."I told him it's a bad plan to blackmail someone who takes care of all your dirty laundry, and he trumped me with 'it's a bad plan to try and blackmail someone who can kill your family,' so."

 

They turn into the campus' residential block, all cobblestone drives and sparse, just-blooming trees."I've been there," Derek says.Stiles looks at him, surprised, but doesn't comment on it.

 

The stairs leading up to the door to Stiles' building are a little tricky, because Stiles is most likely concussed and sort of wants to list forward into a faceplant, so Derek has to balance his weight pretty deftly to keep him from breaking a tooth, or his skull.Stiles fumbles out his student ID and swipes it to enter, drops it, but Derek catches it and stuffs it back in Stiles' pocket.

 

Derek doesn't recognize the security guard on duty at the intake desk, but whoever it is, he takes one look at Stiles, stumbling and bleeding, and says, "We need a clean-up crew, Stiles?"  

 

He doesn't so much as glance at Derek, and a line of cold runs down his spine.He commits the face to memory, for if he has to pick him out in a firefight, or a lineup, or the employee roster down at campus security.

 

Stiles shakes his head minutely."Just a little tough love from McAlister."

 

The security guard chuckles."What he do this time? Smash a bottle?"

 

"On my face, yeah," Stiles replies, nonchalant, but his voice is flat, toneless, like he's standing with his hands cuffed in front of him pleading _guilty, your honor._ "Will you buzz us in?"

 

It's now that the guard gives Derek a perfunctory look."He a cop?"

 

Stiles freezes for a moment, and Derek sees that same kid who bolted when he caught a glimpse of a uniform, who said, _I was raised by a cop._ "No, he's good," he says, finally.

 

They bundle into an elevator instead of even considering the stairs.Derek props Stiles up against a wall and braces one arm between Stiles and certain collapse, close enough to catch him.Stiles' eyes start to drift closed, and Derek jostles him a little to wake him back up - he blinks hard, starts.  

 

"My roommate has skin glue," Stiles says, in the silence of the elevator."It won't heal pretty, but it should stop the bleeding."

 

"If you pass out, I'm taking you to a hospital."

 

Stiles smiles distantly."What, carry me? Bridal-style? Would you run all the way there, too? Burst in through the ER doors and just yell _'somebody help!'_? Fall to your knees, sobbing - "  

 

Derek does his best to glare at him, but it's hard when Stiles is pale and woozy and all he really wants to do is get him to bed, wrap up around him with one hand wrapped around a gun, the other one tangled up with Stiles' fingers, shut out the rest of the world."I'm serious," he says."You're probably concussed, you've definitely lost enough blood to be a problem - "

 

"Nah, I've got time before I go into shock," Stiles says."Just need to glue my head back together, it'll all be fine in a few minutes."The elevator doors ping open, and Derek has to corrall Stiles while he tries to walk down the hall with only the wall for support, instead of arguing with him more.

 

Once they're in the room, Stiles kicks his shoes off and hobbles off on his own to the bathroom, leaving Derek to latch the door behind them - the latch looks like it's been installed by Stiles himself, as well as the two chains at the bottom of the door.The suite is quiet, Stiles' roommate must be out again, or else sleeping, so Derek follows the sounds of Stiles banging around like a bull in a china shop and finds him digging in the medicine cabinet, his bloodied sweatshirt on the floor.

 

He emerges victorious with a tiny bottle of skin adhesive, and closes the cabinet.Without anything to obstruct Derek's view, his head wound looks really awful - his left ear and the skin around it are a bloody mess, littered with deep, short lacerations, blood running from each one.His black eye is not so much just a black eye as a black entire-side-of-his-face, and Derek thinks he should have grabbed the peas on the way in.

 

The faucet coughs to life, and Stiles starts wetting a washcloth, bright pink, obviously not his.He starts to clean the wounds, but he winces and drops the washcloth in the sink almost as soon as he's started.

 

Derek sighs and crowds his way into the bathroom."Sit," he says, unnecessarily, and plunks Stiles down on the closed toilet.Stiles goes obediently, leaning back against the tank.

 

"First things first..." Derek mutters.He rummages through the medecine cabinet for a second and comes back out with a bottle of ibuprofen, handing it to Stiles."I recommend two times the recommended dose."

 

Stiles pops the lid and dry-swallows four pills all at once like it's nothing, which is something Derek will file away for now and worry about later.He reprises the washcloth and wets it again, with warm water, then leaves the faucet running while he leans over to Stiles.

 

This close, he can see that Stiles' eyelashes, at least in his good eye, are long, thin and sun-kissed at the ends.A constellation of moles extends across his face, his neck, and Derek wonders in some absent, but not-removed corner of his mind how far down they go, how long it would take him to press open-mouthed kisses to each and every one.

 

He takes Stiles' chin between his thumb and forefinger and turns his head so that he can clean the cuts, quick and gently; he can hear Laura's voice in his head, even now, murmuring to him in the darkness of their third-floor shared bathroom, her hands gentling on his face, _don't cry, little wolf, we lick our wounds and when we're done we come back stronger._

 

All it would take is a breath in the wrong direction, and their lips would brush; Derek feels Stiles' good eye on him, but he doesn't look, because then he'd be done for, no hope of stopping up the bleeding in his own chest.He tosses the washcloth back in the sink and takes the little bottle of glue from the counter with one hand, grabbing an untouched towel to pat Stiles' face dry with the other.

 

"Why does your roommate even _have_ skin glue?" he asks, as he unscrews the cap.

 

Stiles is holding as still as possible - not very, that is - as Derek starts applying the glue at the edges of each jagged cut.Stiles is right - none of the wounds are clean enough for this to heal pretty, and there will be scarring, Stiles will probably have to grow out his hair to cover it.  

 

"Lydia's boyfriend is a douchebag jock," Stiles says."He likes to get himself beat up on a fairly regular basis, either in lacrosse or just in life.The medical bills got to be too much for Lydia to argue her way out of, so, field medicine."

 

Derek knows from experience that it's always good to be distracted during painful procedures, so he asks, "How do you argue your way out of a medical bill?"

 

He's rewarded with a lopsided smile on the good half of Stiles' face."I don't know, man," he starts."Lydia can argue her way into whatever she wants, most of the time.That's how we got a suite our sophomore year, even with just two of us, well - if you don't count her douche Jackson, who mostly lives here, too.That's how we got hardwood, floors, too.Even for Lydia, that was a tricky configuration."

 

Derek dabs an extra drop of glue on a particularly mean looking gash."She sounds like she should be at Harvard Law, not here."  

 

Stiles laughs."That's the thing, man - she passed the bar no problem, without even going to law school.So now she's pre-med, looking to be some sort of bigshot neurosurgeon, which she'll probably accomplish in like two years or some shit, knowing her."

 

Derek finishes with the flue and caps it, setting down on the edge of the sink, then turns off the faucet.He goes to look in the cabinet again, but Stiles heads him off with, "Bandages are in the bottom drawer," so he kneels in front of the sink to retrieve them.

 

He puts a big square of gauze over the minced side of Stiles' head and starts fixing it on with medical tape, careful not to put pressure on his swollen eye."We're gonna need to get the peas for that," he says, voice low enough that only Stiles, his forehead mere inches from Derek's mouth, could ever hear.  

 

Stiles looks up at him, and this time, Derek looks back, not moving.He wishes he could see both of Stiles' eyes, beautiful, warm, golden, better than anything Derek ever dreamed, but Stiles runs his tongue over his still-healing bottom lip."You said," he tries, then restarts."You said you've been here before.When?"

 

Derek smiles weakly."Every cop has to have a tragic backstory, right?"

 

Stiles leans forward a fraction, then leans back again, all in one off-balance movement."Rent-a-cop," he accuses, and Derek doesn't have anything - 

 

Derek kisses him.  

 

Stiles' mouth opens, soft, under his, and Derek wants to press forward, wants to bundle Stiles up in his arms and lift him, shelter him against the wall, but Stiles is broken and Derek doesn't want to break him more, can't ever break him more, can't risk it.He drops the roll of tape he still has in one hand and hears it clatter to the floor, somewhere far away, wraps a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and sinks down to his knees, to be level with him.

 

Stiles' hands are twisted as well as they can in the shoulders of Derek's uniform shirt, his weight pressing forward into Derek's chest, sliding to the edge of the seat until Derek's arm around his waist stops him, catches him in place.Derek soothes over his lower lip with his tongue, and he makes a high-pitched, cut-off sound, breathes, "Derek," into his mouth. One of his hands slides up to bury in Derek's hair, tilts Derek's head to get the angle better, closer even though they're already pressed flush - 

 

Cool fingers touch a bare patch of Derek' lower back, his shirt pulled out of his belt without him even noticing, and a shiver runs across his skin, he pulls back far enough to nose at the line of Stiles' jaw.Stiles' breath is warm against his ear, his face, everywhere, Stiles breathes and Derek listens to the rhythm of his heartbeat, strong and sure underneath his skin, presses his lips to the pulse point in his neck for a long, suspended second.

 

Stiles' blunt fingernails scrape lightly over Derek's spine as his hand curls around the hem of Derek's shirt."Bed," he says under his breath, and Derek's last rational thought goes out with that single word.  

 

He stands, and Stiles follows him, still touching him everywhere at once, still not enough, never an inch of space between them.Derek catches his lips again, backs out of the bathroom with Stiles' arms around his neck, his hands splayed over Stiles' waist, his back.He looses his shirt under Stiles' hands, pauses outside the bedroom door as Stiles' fingers lock in his belt loops, as he mutters a quiet, " _Fuck_ ," that does nothing to disturb the hush that's settled over the whole apartment.  

 

Stiles falls back into him, and Derek stumbles through the bedroom door as Stiles gets his mouth on Derek's neck, his earlobe, sucks a mark into that spot behind Derek's jaw that makes him _keen_.Derek runs a hand up Stiles' back, bunching his tee shirt up as he goes, and Stiles pulls back long enough for Derek to pull the shirt gently over his head, around his bandages, praying to whoever will listen that all he finds is smooth, unmarred skin - 

 

He's pulled into the room by the belt, as Stiles works to undo it, his lips still moving slowly over the swoop where Derek's neck meets his shoulder.He runs his thumb over a puckered scar on the small of Stiles' back, and he knows that an inch to the left would've been his spine, can't do anything about it but take Stiles' jaw and pull his lips back to his, kiss him slow and deep and a little hard, a little desperate.  

 

When he pulls back, Stiles breathes in shaky, his fingers stuttering over Derek's mouth, at the skin just above the waistline of his pants.He just looks at him for a moment, one eye swollen shut, one fluttering wildly, then steps back and falls onto the unmade bed, pulling Derek down overtop of him.

 

And - what can Derek do, but follow that constellation of moles with his tongue, over Stiles' collarbone, across his chest and down towards his navel, and Stiles moans softly under him and arches into his touch, his muscles tight under Derek's fingers, his head tipped back into the mattress.He flattens his tongue over a three-star alignment of moles low on Stiles' hip, stays there for a long minute to breathe the already-familiar scent of him, palm him through his jeans.

 

Stiles makes a choking sound, and Derek feels his hand sink into his hair, a gentle pressure.He kisses over his hip again, then moves lower to mouth at Stiles' fly, feels the muscles of Stiles' abdomen strain as he fights the instinct to buck up into the heat of Derek's mouth.Derek sits back, and Stiles whimpers at that, even as Derek slides his jeans down and off, then takes his time with his boxers.

 

This - this crazy college kid laid out under him, pale and thin and gorgeous and breathing hard and brave and _Stiles_ , he's everything Derek never dared to ask for, he's something worth saving, and Derek hasn't had anything like that in a very long time.He stretches over him and kisses him again, softly, the raised line of the healing split jagged on Derek's tongue.

 

He moves down Stiles' body slowly, tracing a straight path across his chest, over his navel.He pauses once, looks up at Stiles from underneath the hang of his hair in his eyes, and Stiles breathes, " _Christ_ , you're going to kill me."

 

Derek wraps his lips around the head of Stiles' cock and sinks down, swallows him down, and the moan Stiles lets out above him makes him see white.He sucks hard, then pulls off, swirls his tongue around the underside, sinks back down again, and Stiles' hand in his hair tightens to a fist, his hips lift off the bed just slightly like he's trying not to - 

 

He comes with a gasp, his thighs spasming under Derek's palms, and Derek's throat works around him, until Stiles' hands drop to the sides of Derek's face, his touches feather-light.

 

He pulls Derek up to kiss him, kisses his lips, his eyes, his chin, nose, ears.Derek lets his weight settle overtop of him, against his lean chest so that he can feel the racing beat of his heart, the thin sheen of sweat on his skin.Stiles undoes his pants deftly, not even looking, and then his hand is around Derek's cock, tight, and Derek sucks a heavy breath into his neck, gets a heady rush of the musky scent of him.

 

Stiles strokes him slowly, his lips moving against Derek's ear, and he can't hear what he's saying, but it doesn't matter, just the low cadence of Stiles' soothing voice, up close, and Derek closes his eyes and comes into Stiles' hand, one arm wrapped around Stiles' back, their legs tangled up together.

 

They end up laying diagonally across the bed, Stiles tucked into Derek's chest, Derek's back to the door.The afternoon sunlight comes in around the edges of the curtains on Stiles' bedroom windows, casting him in a warm orange light, and if Derek could stop time, he thinks he would stop it here, now.  

 

"I can help you get out," Derek murmurs.He runs his hand absently up and down Stiles' bare back, kisses the top of his head."I can't promise anything, but - I've done it before."

 

Stiles scooches closer into him, presses a kiss to his collar bone."Okay."

 

&

 

"I'll be your lawyer, obviously," Lydia is saying, over the waffle press."I'm the best you can afford who the boss isn't going to be able to pay off, so that's a given."

 

Derek takes a sip of his orange juice and watches Stiles make an exasperated face at his roommate."Have you ever actually argued a criminal case before?" he asks incredulously.

 

Lydia turns around to him, brandishing a spatula."I won't have to, dumbass.Any case against a criminal as big as the boss is going to have it's own squad of district attorneys looking to prosecute.All I have to do is look out for you, make sure you're getting a good deal out of everything," she turns back around, and starts queueing up another waffle for the press, "and that should be the easy part, given the whole blackmail, extortion thing."

 

Stiles drops his head onto his folded arms and groans."You're going to be insufferable about all of this, aren't you?"

 

Lydia smiles cheerfully."Would you expect any less?" she asks.She plates a waffle, pours more syrup than is strictly healthy onto it and slides it in front of Stiles."Before we give them anything, we have to make sure they're coordinating with the LAPD to put your father in protective custody.That's our number one priority."

 

"Scott and Allison, too," Stiles says, "and Isaac.They can't get to Isaac."

 

Derek leans forward on the counter to grab the bottle of orange juice for a second cup."Shouldn't our first priority be Stiles' safety?" he asks, working his way to angry, but the blanket of sleep still settled in the barely-dawn light is enough to keep him content, one of his ankles hooked around the leg of Stiles' stool.

 

Lydia looks at him like he's dumb, which is a little hurtful at five o'clock in the morning."The first thing the police are going to do when they figure out they have the boss' bookie willing to testify in court is take Stiles into protective custody," she explains, as if Derek doesn't know that.

 

He takes the next plate of waffles she serves up and smears butter over them."Yes, and the first thing the boss is going to do when he hears his bookie is going to flip on him is talk to his people inside the BPD."

 

That gives Lydia pause, if only for a couple of seconds."We can vet the security detail," she suggests.

 

Derek shakes his head, finishes chewing his mouthful of waffle."There's too much opportunity for a communications leak," he says, "we can't risk it.What I'd do is talk to the Italians - they're the only other family in the city that can even rival the Irish.See if they'll let you use one of their safehouses, in exchange you bring down the entire Irish infrastructure, give them a head start at setting up a monopoly on whatever industry the Irish leave."

 

Lydia narrows her eyes at him, and all he can do under her scrutiny is stuff some more waffle in his mouth.Stiles is staring at him from the stool next to him with his fork hanging out of the corner of mouth, probably drooling syrup.

 

"That could work," Lydia says, finally."We should go to the Russians, though."

 

Derek shakes his head."The Russians cover more territory, but they've been spread thin for the last few years.You'll get better protection going to the Italians."

 

Lydia tilts her head, and Derek gets the strange feeling that she's not just looking at him, she's looking down the barrel of a gun."Derek Hale," she says.

 

"That's his name," says Stiles helpfully.

 

Lydia has a look on her face like she's sticking a pin in less-relevant but still intruiging information, for examination later."I'm not going to meet the Italians unarmed," she says, no-nonsense, topic of the _Hale_ family name dropped for now."We'll have to have the DA come to us, otherwise we'll have to turn any guns over."  

 

"That leaves a gap between when the boss could be tipped off and when the LAPD gets to my dad," Stiles butts in."I'll have to call him, tell him to stay at the office.I can make up some sort of excuse."

 

Derek nods."Is there a back way out of the building? So the front desk doesn't see you?"  

 

Lydia finishes the last waffle and unplugs the press."There's a kid on the first floor who owes me for getting him off a narcotics conviction.We can go out his window, no problem."

 

"Okay."Stiles bumps his knee against Derek's under the counter, then leaves it there, so they're pressed thigh-to-thigh, and Derek looks at him for a long minute, at his black eye just barely open, bandages stained with dried, rusty blood."I'll head down to campus security and pick up Stiles' gun and my revolver, then we'll head to Marcello's."

 

Stiles shifts to the edge of his stool, his knee hooked over Derek's."They won't be open yet."

 

On her way to the orange juice, Lydia pats him on the head."They will be for you, honey."She plops down on the couch with her breakfast, and starts flipping through an issue of _People_ magazine like they're not about to stand up to the most dangerous mafia family in Boston, maybe on the eastern seaboard."And oh, Derek, leave your radio, in case guys with tommy guns show up."

 

&

 

Derek knows from the second he steps out of the stairwell that something is wrong.

 

He can't see all the way to the dorm door from here, has to go around a corner before he'll get a straight shot down the hallway, but he draws his gun anyway, clicks off the safety, cocks it.All the other dorms are closed, no students moving around the halls - which, this is the time of morning that the entire building should be starting to wake up, so it's rather unnerving to walk carefully forward and have no noise disturb the hall, no kids yelling for everyone to hide the contraband.

 

The row that Stiles' dorm is in doesn't seem, at first glance, to be any different than the hall Derek's just cleared, but when Derek pauses for a moment a few doors down, he can see that Stiles and Lydia's door is open, can hear the sounds of someone rooting around inside, and - 

 

The guys with tommy guns have showed up after all.

 

Derek's heart is in his throat as he moves towards the room, and some little voice in the back of his head left over from his days in the family is screaming that he needs to check behind him, clear every room, sniff for gasoline or explosives or vodka.But this isn't life or death for _him_ , it's life or death for Stiles.And those are two very different considerations, of wildly varying value.

 

His rushed heartbeat makes him rush the advance, he knows, and the second he makes the turn into the room, gun first, the revolver is knocked out of his hands and sent flying across the room.It hits the hardwood floor of the kitchen and goes off, and the loud crack it makes is like a break in the floodgates - 

 

Derek blocks an elbow to his face on reflex alone, tenses his abdomen for the knee he knows is coming next because to bend over with the blow would be absolute suicide.He strikes out for the assailant's throat, but his hand meets empty air, the guy grabs onto his wrist and twists it.Derek barely arches enough out of the way of the switchblade that it merely digs a large scratch across the back of his shoulders, splitting his shirt, but he feels the bones of his wrist pop sickeningly.  

 

He drops down to the floor, which wrenches his shoulder painfully, but puts his attacker off-balance.He kicks out at the assailant's knees to cobble him, bring him crashing to the ground.  

 

He slams the guy's hand against the floor, and the knife goes skittering away across the floor.He pins the guy, gets a knee in his gut and starts whaling his fist into his face, once, twice, three times and again and again and again, and he can feel his knuckles splitting, but he keeps going as the guy's hands scrabble at his arms, until he goes limp.

 

Derek stands slowly, pockets the assailant's knife, and pulls Stiles' .22 out of his waistband.The sound of a gun cocking sounds behind him, and he turns slowly to look over his shoulder, his back to the room.He can feel cool air on his upper back through the tear that means somewhere in the suite a window is open, letting in a draft.

 

"Fuck," someone says from behind him, "the kid's screwing a fucking _Hale_ , what the fuck?"

 

Derek turns while the dumbass mobster is talking, squeezing the trigger as he moves, and by the last 'fuck' the guy has a quarter-sized hole in his head, laid out on the floor.  

 

There's no one else in the apartment, only two guys, or else they would have come out into the living room at the sound of the fight.Derek walks slowly and picks up his revolver from where it's fallen in the kitchen, clicking the safety on and sticking it back in his waistband.

 

He takes a deep breath, and gives himself a quick moment to look down at his feet and feel ten again, looking down the mansion stairs at the poker room usually so full of life, now filled with lifeless bodies, one of them his father's - and his mother looks up the stairs at him and Laura and says _everything's alright_ , but he never believed it - 

 

"Stiles," he calls, his voice breaking on the single syllable.  

 

The apartment remains resolutely silent, not even a floorboard creaking."Stiles," Derek tries again, louder, but he isn't expecting a reply.He moves forward through the suite, looks into Lydia's room and the bathroom briefly before stepping into Stiles' bedroom.

 

It's empty.The bed is still rumpled, sheets rolled down around the foot of the bed.Derek's uniform shirt is folded over the back of a desk chair, on top of a clean pair blue of Stiles' cuordoroys.He can smell Stiles, can see the imprint of his body in the bed, in the pillow, like he just got up, like Derek just had him lying spread-eagled and loose against him a breath of a moment ago - 

 

The window across from the door is open.Derek takes one step, and then another - then runs the last few feet to the window and looks out, bracing his hands on the sill.

 

The fire escape reaches down towards the street, the ladder at the bottom pulled out to full length.There are a pair of bright green stilettos placed carefully next to a trash can in the small sidestreet, and no bodies.

 

The extra radio from the campus security office in Derek's pocket crackles to life."Hey, Derek, come in, Derek," says Stiles' voice."Do not go back to the dorm.Repeat, do _not_ go back to the dorm."The line goes silent for a second, then comes back, "Acknowledge.Lydia says you have to acknowledge."

 

Derek laughs, not so much because it's funny as because an impossible weight has just lifted off his shoulders.He pulls the radio out, and says, "Where the fuck are you, Stiles?"

 

"Shit, did you go back to the dorm already - "

 

Stiles' voice cuts off, to be replaced by Lydia's crisp, businesslike tone."We made it to the Italians.Took the subway.You need to bring me my pantsuit, though, or this whole thing will fall apart."

 

&

 

The Italians' safehouse is a piece of shit hole in the wall above a Chinese restaurant downtown.Everyone figures it's Triad territory, which Derek thinks would be a better cover if the Triads actually had more than three old ladies operating in the city.

 

Lydia meets him in the dim, wallpapered hallway outside the apartment, casting glances over her shoulder at the two laughing Italian men stationed on either side of the door as she approaches him.She's barefoot, her hair thrown up in a haphazard ponytail, curls coming out in every direction, and she doesn't look to pleased by her temporary living arrangements.Derek slows as she reaches him, because she has a tough, knifelike glint in her eye that tells him he's not getting past until she sets a few things straight.

 

"So," she says, crossing her arms over her chest."You're one of _those_ Hales."

 

Derek sighs.He's got his leather jacket on over his sliced shirt, but he feels the triskelion tattoo between his shoulder blades as if it's a ring of fire on his skin, a bright beacon for all the world to see."Yes," he says, quietly.

 

Lydia nods, her lips pursed."Bringing down the Irish, that would help you, if the rumors are true."

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

Lydia looks over at the two Italians, but they're still just laughing at something playing on an iPad, reclined in their folding chairs." _Are_ the rumors true?" she asks, voice lowered.

 

Derek chuckles."The rumors that my family faked their own deaths in that fire?" he asks, even though he doesn't need clarification."Your guess is as good as mine, Lydia."

 

She tilts her head, expression unreadable, but she doesn't keep asking.Instead, she says, no question in her voice, "I don't have to give you the _hurt him, I break your neck_ , talk.I have a feeling you'd break your neck yourself, so."  

 

She steps aside, to let him walk past her to the door.Derek hands her the laundry bag with her pantsuit in it as he passes, and she smiles a little smugly as she takes it."Thanks.Want any takeout from downstairs?"

 

"No, thanks.I'm good."

 

Lydia waves to the two Italians, and they stand up to let Derek enter.He watches her as she disappears down the stairs to the Chinese place, in her bare feet with her pantsuit slung over one shoulder, and then pushes the door open and steps inside, blinking to adjust to the higher level of light.

 

Stiles is on him before Derek's even all the way through the door, his weight pushing him back into the door so that it slams shut behind Derek's shoulders.The two guns in his waistband dig into his back, but he hardly notices, because Stiles' mouth is on his, his hands on either side of Derek's jaw.

 

Derek smiles against his lips, his arms sliding around Stiles' thin waist.Some final tight spot in his chest unfurls, and he melts forward into him, breathes in deep and can hardly smell Stiles for the cigarette smoke fog lingering over the apartment, but it's enough to feel Stiles real and whole against him, under his hands, soft in his grey sweatpants and MIT sweatshirt that he somehow got the blood out of already.

 

Stiles kisses his once more, sucking Derek's lower lip between his as he pulls away, and leans his forehead against Derek's."Derek, you dumbass," he says, "you went back to the dorm, didn't you?"

 

Derek's grin won't quite go away even as Stiles chastises him, even as the Italians' laughter ratchets up a notch outside, even as the cut on his back throbs and his wrenched shoulder aches."You could've been just slightly quicker with the warning."

 

Stiles' thigh slides between Derek's knees, and he moves forward even closer into his space, as if there were any space left.His nose drags across Derek's collarbone, and Derek spreads his fingers to cradle Stiles' skull.He presses a kiss to Stiles' good ear, and his scruffy beard must scratch the thin skin on the shell of his ear, but he only sinks further into Derek, his arms wrapping around his torso inside his jacket.

 

"Everything's alright," Derek murmurs, then amends, "everything's going to be alright."

 

And prays Stiles believes him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the song under my arrest by the fossil collective


End file.
